


C'est la Guerre

by gwyneth rhys (gwyneth)



Category: The Unit
Genre: Comfort Sex, Confessions, Hurt/Comfort, Implied Mack/Jonas, M/M, Post-Episode: Inside Out
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-12-24
Updated: 2013-12-24
Packaged: 2018-01-05 21:40:53
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,586
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1098890
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/gwyneth/pseuds/gwyneth%20rhys
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After the episode Inside Out, Mack seeks out Gael for a little post-mission comfort.</p>
            </blockquote>





	C'est la Guerre

**Author's Note:**

  * For [storiesfortravellers](https://archiveofourown.org/users/storiesfortravellers/gifts).



> Your interesting prompt about Mack and Gael was inspirational -- I hope you enjoy this treat.

The room was stifling and close, and Mack Gerhardt paced back and forth in front of the window, unable to enjoy what little view of Marseilles one could get in this hotel. He checked his phone again, looked at the address he’d noted. Hector Williams was sleeping in one of the suite’s bedrooms, Jonas Blane doing paperwork on the bed in the other. Though Mack was on the sofa for the night, there was no way he could sleep. 

“I’m going out for a while,” Mack said, and Jonas glanced up at him, puzzled. 

“Where?”

“Don’t know. Just don’t feel like sleeping.” That in itself was a dead give-away that something larger was bugging him, because Jonas knew all too well that Mack could sleep anywhere, any time.

Jonas frowned. “See you later, then.” But there was an edge in his voice, a worry Mack was unaccustomed to. Hector was awake now, watching them through the doorway, that same “something’s wrong here” look on his face.

So he threw them a bone to put them off the scent. “Knew a girl once in Marseilles. Might try to find her. Or just see the city.”

Mack knew Jonas knew there was more. They were knowledgeable to a fault when it came to each other, he thought with an unexpected bitterness. “Well then. Have fun.”

“Back in time for the flight,” Mack said with a casual spin he didn’t feel, and closed the door behind him. He had no idea what he really wanted to do, but that was his pattern lately.

 

He wandered idly at first, then flipped open his phone and looked up the address once more, orienting himself and heading in the right direction. If Gael had already left for Paris, it would be for the best, but Mack knocked on the door to his flat anyway. He wasn’t sure if he was disappointed or pleased when Gael answered a minute later, peering out the crack in the door, then his face lighting up in happy surprise. “Mack!” he said warmly, although his face betrayed his confusion. “Come in, come in. But what are you doing here?”

Mack entered, scanning the room, the autopilot kicking in that had you looking for exits, checking to make sure everything was clear. They’d given their weapons back and Mack always felt so vulnerable without one. “Our flight doesn’t leave till morning,” he said, attempting a conversational tone, “so I thought I’d check on you.”

“They gave me the antibiotics at the hospital. I will be okay.”

“Good.” He nodded a couple times, his awkwardness in such situations evident.

“Uh...would you like to sit down? Something to drink?” There wasn’t much furniture; the place was a small, studio-type flat with little to make it look lived-in, and Mack wondered if the rest of the money Gael would have received wasn’t for bettering his living situation. He’d brought that up, wanting to explain his reasons for doing what he’d done. Mack hadn’t cared at the time, but he did now.

Mack sat down on one of the wooden chairs, and Gael stood by the bed that was pushed up against the wall, hands flexing, as if he didn’t know what to do with himself -- or was afraid something else would happen to get him into trouble. Mack didn’t look at him, but said, “You asked me before if I wanted to know why you took the money for transporting the chip. At the time I didn’t really care, but now I’m kind of curious.”

Gael went to a cupboard in the tiny kitchen, pulled out a bottle, and groaned. “I’m sorry, this is all I have. Armagnac. I thought I would be gone for a while. I think it’s left from a party.” He poured two drinks, handed one to Mack, and raised his own, saying, _“À la vôtre.”_ Mack halfheartedly raised his and drank it down in one gulp, so Gael poured him another.

Sitting down on the edge of the bed, Gael gazed at him, his mouth set in a hard line. “I took the money because my mother is sick, and as you can see, I’m not what you would call wealthy. They’ve said there is nothing more they can do. But there’s a clinic in Switzerland...” He shrugged, as if to say “what would you do?” and Mack smiled sadly.

“Gael, there’s _always_ a clinic in Switzerland, or Mexico, or someplace else. It’s the kind of rumor that preys on the desperate. You got yourself in way over your head for the promise of something that might not exist.”

He shrugged again. “I know that. But when it’s someone you love, it becomes suddenly the thing you are willing to take a chance on, no? You can say that people should accept their fate, until it’s someone you don’t want to lose.”

Mack stared down into his glass and sighed. “That’s true.” He had no right to second-guess someone else’s choices for a family member. There were no lengths he wouldn’t go to to save someone he loved.

“Mack, why are you here?” Gael asked quietly. “I appreciate the visit, but I don’t think this is why you are here.”

That was the sixty-four-thousand-dollar question, and he puffed out a breath in a half-hearted laugh. “Honestly? I have no freakin’ clue.”

“I thought you would be gone by now.”

“Flight doesn’t leave till morning. I thought you’d be gone by now, too.”

“I’m taking a train this time.” He grinned, and Mack noticed how much his brown eyes sparkled when he smiled. He really wasn’t such a bad dude when you gave him a chance. “Did your friends know where you have gone?”

There were so many tenses in that sentence that it made Mack smile. “No.”

“Ah, so it’s clandestine.”

Mack held a hand out, palm up. “That’s my life.”

It was Gael’s turn to laugh. _“C’est la guerre,”_ he said cheerfully, and raised his glass again, then peered at Mack gravely. “Something bothers you.”

Mack turned the glass around and around in his hand, considering what to say. Jonas would be horrified to know he was even here, but these days Mack didn’t feel like he could really talk to him the same way he had before everything had fallen apart. As grateful as he was for the lengths Jonas had gone to to get him off that prison ship, he couldn’t talk about everything he’d been through. Nor could he really talk about the orders to stay away from his own family, how helpless he felt in the face of others taking control over his life, when he’d done nothing wrong this time. They were not allowed to feel this way in their world, not really, and if you did, you’d best keep it to yourself.

“I was tortured recently. _By my own government._ Completely fucking abandoned, set up by people I don’t even know, and they beat and tortured me for days. They wanted me to turn against my team, my country. And what I got for not giving in was to have my family taken away from me, without even a chance to say what happened. Because of a misunderstanding, I was kicked out of my house and now I can’t see my children without a guard present. That’s what I got in return for my service.”

Gael leaned back against the wall, one knee raised and his arm dangling off it, swirling the glass around and around. “You play with your wedding ring as you talk.”

Glancing down at his ring, Mack laughed. “Yeah.” For reasons he couldn’t understand, Mack took it off and slipped it into his jeans pocket. “My wife and I are like...putting out fires with gasoline, as they say.”

“Does she know you were tortured?” 

“Not really. She knows something, but we had problems before that, so I never had the chance to talk about it with her.” Not that he would have anyway, but the subject of his wounds would have come up, probably violently so. “I _can’t_ talk about it with anyone, not even my friend.” Why was he telling Gael this? It was like a water tap he couldn’t turn off, words flowing out of him in a way he’d never allowed himself before. 

“Your commander? He’s your friend, yes?” 

“Yes.” Mack paused, then said, “When it was over, we just went on as if nothing had happened. That’s the code, that’s what we do.”

Gael’s gaze was steady and strong, but there was empathy in it, too. “I thought at first you were a very hard man, very cruel. And I expected you to kill me when it was over. But then I realize you are a good man, but that you didn’t know this. I don’t know that the other two are like that.”

“I could have killed you. That’s what I do.” He leaned forward, staring hard into Gael’s eyes. “It’s what I was supposed to do.”

“You kill people, but you’re not allowed to talk about it with each other, to talk about how it feels to kill another?” Gael seemed disgusted, appalled, the very embodiment of just why they never talked about these things to their families. “They torture their own people when it suits them, and abandon them when it suits them, but you defend them.”

That was exactly what had been eating at him for so long. That no matter what he did for any of them, they’d fuck him over the first chance they got. Maybe even Jonas, although he hated thinking that. He’d never doubted Jonas’s friendship, never doubted that he would take one for the team, for Jonas, if it came down to that, but now doubts wriggled around in the back of his brain like putrid worms, and he couldn’t seem to shake them out. It was a state of being he had never experienced before -- brittle, fragile, resentful.

Mack was silent, staring at his glass, until Gael said, “Were you afraid when they tortured you?”

“Every goddamn minute.” And that was another thought he’d never really put into words before, something that made him wonder about his capabilities as an operator. What would he do if he was worried about the ramifications of every small decision?

“Mack,” Gael said softly, inching forward on the bed and leaning toward him, “why tell me this? Why were you decent to me, when the others didn’t want you to be?”

Putting the drink down, Mack moved over to the bed and sat, leaning back against the wall. He was so tired all of a sudden, as if he hadn’t slept for months, as if his body just wanted to stop, go to sleep and never wake up. “What we do...” Mack said slowly, “we see death and misery all the time, hell, we deal _out_ death and misery. We see bad people do bad things, evil things. But after a while in this job, it just becomes noise.” He took a drink. “I suppose you cut through the noise.”

Turning his head to watch Mack as he spoke, Gael said, “And I don’t know your real name or anything about you, so you can tell me things and there’s no one I could tell in return.”

He smiled. “There is that.”

Gael poured the last of the armagnac for them both, tossed the bottle on the floor, and leaned back against the wall closer to Mack. “I should go out to the shop, get some more wine if you want to talk, though I believe you are a whiskey man, no?”

“I like me a good bourbon now and then, yeah.”

He had to admit, Gael did have an infectious smile. “So. You want to tell someone these things, then you should. Tell me the rest.”

For a while he stayed silent, considering the offer, wondering just what he was risking. As much as he didn’t believe people could change, Mack also knew that something was different inside him now, that his captors had forever altered the most intrinsic part of his makeup. And he was lost, his own moral compass, already tenuous at the best of times, swinging wildly and uncontrollably. Somehow Gael’s predicament had sliced through that and brought something out in Mack he thought he had misplaced a long time ago.

So Mack told him, as much as he could without giving away details, ordering the events in his own mind as he described them, staring straight ahead. When he was done, he finally turned to look at Gael, and said, “And then a few weeks later I watched a girl bleed to death in a minefield and there was nothing I could do to help her.”

Together they sat in silence, the faint sound of techno music from the flat next door carrying through the thin walls. “Where did they hurt you? What did your daughter see?” Gael asked eventually.

Mack regarded him calmly, though it was hard to breathe, his chest was so tight. Then he leaned forward and unbuttoned his shirt, pulling off the right side to show Gael his back. The worst of the bruises had faded by now, but the scars where his skin had split open were still bright pink.

 _“Merde,”_ Gael whispered, and Mack took in the sensation of smooth fingers skating across his back. It had been too long since he’d experienced a human touch, soft and warm, on his bare skin. He turned his head, glancing over his shoulder to find Gael’s face a few inches from his own. Taking Mack’s collar in his hand, Gael pulled the shirt all the way off and kissed his back, one spot, two, three, and Mack found himself sinking back into it, a flicker of arousal in his lower belly.

Then he reached over and wound his fingers through Gael’s curls to pull his head around, take his mouth in a kiss. He unbuttoned Gael’s shirt and pulled it off, fingers grazing the wound that had held the chip, now covered in gauze. After kissing him for a few more minutes, Mack asked Gael, “How’s the shoulder?”

“They gave me some pain...killers, is that right? It helps.”

Mack pressed his forehead against Gael’s. “Idiot, you shouldn’t drink on top of pain medication.”

Gael shrugged. “I’m French.”

For the first time in a very long while, Mack laughed out loud. Pushing him down on the bed, he asked Gael, “You ever done this before?”

His eyes glittered with lust, his hands skittered up and down Mack’s ribs. “A few times. You?”

Mack smiled down at him, undoing the buttons on Gael’s jeans, pulling them down as Gael sighed deeply. “A few times.” That was the other thing that complicated his relationship to Jonas -- their history together, so layered and complex. But all that was a long time in the past and though they’d never spoken about it, Mack assumed it wasn’t likely to happen again. And anyway, he was here, now, with someone who wouldn’t judge him, wouldn’t expect anything from him, wouldn’t offer him anything but a little mercy and kindness.

Gael’s hands were warm and soft, so unlike Mack’s own, rough and hardened by guns and training and violence. One of them wrapped around his dick, slipping over it, up and down; the other hand tugged at Mack’s pants, somewhat futilely, since his arm was so weak on that side. Mack laughed against Gael’s lips, and handled the rest of the undressing for him, shucking their clothing aside. “Do you have anything?”

For a beat, Gael was confused, possibly thinking Mack was asking about sexually transmitted diseases or blood-borne pathogens, and Mack rested his head against Gael’s chest, laughing again. Then Gael puffed out a laugh of his own, saying, “Only olive oil. In the kitchen, I can get it,” but Mack was up finding it before Gael could finish. “I did not expect a visit like this.”

Mack kissed him again, Gael’s tongue slipping languidly in and out of his mouth, before helping him turn over, gently so as not to hurt his arm. He slid inside Gael as he heaved a sigh, turning his head and watching Mack out of the corner of his eye. It had been a long time since he’d done it with a guy, that awkward jockeying of bodies built the same way, the different way they fit. But Gael stayed silent -- which Mack assumed had to be tough for someone so chatty -- and waited for him to set the direction, appearing happy to follow along.

Mack breathed against his neck and clutched Gael’s cock in his fist, moving in long, slow strokes, while Gael met his hips, over and over in a sweet rhythm. He waited until Gael’s breath came in quick, sharp bursts and his eyes dilated, and he felt the hot spill of semen on his hand. Then he thrust a few more times, hard and rough, until he climaxed himself.

When Mack had finally collected himself enough to roll over on the minuscule bed, he said, “That wasn’t exactly what I had in mind when I came here.”

Gael wiped his hand across his lower belly and said something in French Mack wasn’t sure he understood, something about hoping it wasn’t an apology. “What time is it?” he asked, and Mack glanced at his watch.

“Three forty. Shit. We have to be at the airport in two and a half hours.”

“Time flies,” Gael said dryly. Mack got up and began putting his clothes back on. He hoped that by the time he’d walked back to the hotel, the sharp tang of sex would have dissipated, especially if Jonas was still up.

Gael rose slowly; his shoulder was obviously killing him. This probably hadn’t been the best thing for him, and that familiar pulsing guilt throbbed at the back of his mind. Mack slipped Gael’s shirt over his arms and pulled it on, buttoning a few of the buttons, and then helped him with his jeans. He picked up the bottle and the glasses and put them on the counter. When he turned, he saw Gael smiling at him. “You see? You are a nice guy at heart.”

“I don’t know about that.” _Nice_ was the last word anyone who knew him would use to describe him.

“You were going to kill me, weren’t you? And your two friends wanted to. Or let me be killed.”

“Like I said, that was the plan.”

“Why did you save me?”

Mac grinned. “Because I could tell you were a nice guy at heart.”

Gael smiled at him and Mack opened the door, then leaned against the jamb. “How did you end up in this sorry situation, anyway?”

He shook his head. “I have been arrested a few times, you know, for small things, nothing serious. Poor decisions. But you meet people and they know someone who knows someone else...one day these men approached me. They knew I needed money.”

Mack got that. It was the way things were in most people’s worlds, they lived in a grey area that none of the unit operators could afford to dwell in themselves. _“C’est la guerre,”_ Mack said with a sad smile.

“Oui. But I would never have done it if I knew what the chip was. For some reason, it’s important to me that you know that.”

“I do.” He leaned over and kissed Gael again, his fingers twisting through those wild black curls. When he pulled away, he stared hard at him, and said, “Just promise me you’ll never do something that stupid again.”

“If you promise me something in return. Tell your friend what happened. If not for you, then for him.”

Mack nodded, a wave of emotion coursing through him that made his throat tighten and his eyes sting. He knocked his fist a couple times against Gael’s good shoulder. “Be careful. It’ll take nothing at all for me to find you again and slap you upside the head if you don’t.”

“I would like it if you did very much.”

 

When he returned to the hotel, Hector was still asleep, and Jonas finally was, too. Mack dropped to the couch and let himself drift off; he felt lighter, freer than he had in weeks.

At one point during the long flight home, Jonas woke him up to use the lavatory. Mack shifted position once he’d returned, and was just about to fall back asleep when Jonas said quietly, “I hope your night out was helpful.”

Mack just nodded, took a sip of water.

Jonas stroked his chin a few times, always a sign that he was thinking about how to solve a puzzle. “I’ve been meaning to ask you. Maybe someday you can tell me about what happened while I was gone.” So typical of Jonas -- talk about it as if he’d just missed out on some of the kids’ soccer games or something.

He glanced behind him to see Hector with his face in a book. “There’s a lot to tell.” But for the first time since he’d returned home, Mack saw a glimmer of something positive in that story. If anyone could help him get back with his family, it would be Jonas Blane.

Jonas put his hand on Mack’s forearm, his face somber but open and his eyes filled with kindness. “Then we best get to it.”


End file.
